


en·vis·ion

by skyjoos



Series: Definition of Love [4]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blindness, Disability, Emotional, Established Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationship Problems, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyjoos/pseuds/skyjoos
Summary: ənˈviZHən /verb/imagine as a future possibility; visualize.Jeremy and Michael have been sweethearts since high school but ever since Michael's recent fortune, their relationship has been going downhill. Jeremy's also been noticing his vision is declining and a visit to the doctor confirms his worst fear: He's going blind. Now the couple have to overcome the unpredictable roller coaster that is disability.





	en·vis·ion

**You up yet baby?**

It’s a text from Michael. I gleefully open the app and reply.

**Yea. When can I see you?**

I hit send and nearly collapse back onto my bed. The sun shines through my window in beautiful, horizontal rays from my blinds. I bring my hand to cover my eyes, shielding them from the bright light. I feel the sudden wave of morning grogginess. I groan as I remember that it’s already Sunday. Only a few hours left of freedom before I’m tossed back into five am classes with only 15 minute recessions in-between each; the wondrous Cycle of (college) Life.

It takes Michael an extra minute than usual to respond. He must be feeling the dread, too. I check my phone once I feel the familiar vibrate at my side.

**Anywhere, anytime. ;)**

I smile sleepily. It’s not even ten and Michael already wants to play coy. Despite my best efforts to sound sarcastic, I maintain my smile as I type by response.

**I’ll keep that in mind lol. Let’s just stay in bed. Not our own beds of course. We’ll obviously have to stay in one or the other’s bed. Coin toss: Heads you come over to my bed, Tails and I’ll come to you. ;)**

I throw Michael the Coin Toss gimmick. Since before I can remember, we’ve used a coin to determine everything. Not just in our relationship. But in arguments, debates, general life questions even. We’ve used a coin on determining where we’ll eat, what movie we’ll see, if Rich and Jake will break up this week and get back together the following or if they’ll stay together this week, break up the next, and get back together the day after. Coin tossing is almost like a predictive omen to us. I haven’t even closed my phone before Michael replies.

**Heed the coin toss! The damned metallic future predicting wizard!**

I roll my eyes and bring up an application on my phone. It’s literally named Coin Toss App. Its just a randomly generated, animated little coin that flips when you press it. I press it once and smile with the result: Heads. I screenshot the result and send it to Michael with the text.

**Looks like someone will have to get dressed and come on over to my place haha**

Michael only replies with an angry face emoji. I stretch my legs, still laying down. They glide against my bedsheets like cooled butter. My phone buzzes again. Michael sends.

**Be there in ten minutes dork**

“You smell like rotten beef,” Michael says to me as he plops on my bed less than an hour later.

His face is oily and stressed. He’s still wearing yesterday’s pants and shirt with a sweatshirt thrown on top. I sigh and set my head on his shoulder and give a hearty laugh. He pulls me in and kisses the top of my head. It feels so good to have him here. I reach up to finger his neck, my fingers making small circles at his collar bone.

“You smell like corn-chipped beef,” I shoot back.

Michael smirks, “Well, you look like beef.”

“How can someone look like beef?” I ask.

Michael shrugs, his shoulder digs into my cheek a bit. I readjust myself so I’m placed in the crook of his neck. He moves his neck to the side to give me room. I only reach up further to give him a quick playful kiss on the neck.

“I dunno. Maybe you’re not beef. Maybe chicken?”

I sit up and look him in the eyes, my gaze pretending to be hurt.

“I’m not chicken! If I’m chicken, you’re pork.”

“I don’t even eat pork!”

With that, we completely loose it. We’re a laughing mess on my bed at ten am. Michael wraps me up in a huge hug as we play wrestle over who's a chicken or who's pork. We have to stop once we start to breath heavily. I sigh exhaustively as Michael gets up to use the bathroom. I reach over for my nightstand where my glasses sit. I sit up and place them on my head. It’s too early for me to care enough to put my contacts in. I blink back the hazy fog that shields my eyes but to no avail. I rip my glasses off and rub them against my sheet. I put them back on and still see the same haziness I’ve seen my whole life.

I don’t have terrible vision. I’ve had relatively decent vision my whole life. I didn’t even know I needed glasses until middle school when I failed the last few stages of the eye exam. Even then, my doctor didn’t feel like glasses were totally necessary as I’ve gone by in life easily without them. But my father insisted I use a pair for school. Since then, I’ve bought contacts. I’ve never had a problem with my eyes unless you count that time Michael and I got so drunk that the back of my eyes hurt for the entire night. As I ponder my abnormal vision, I hear the low flush of the toilet and Michael returns.

“Jer, let’s make breakfast, baby. I’m starving,” Michael encourages.

I quickly nod and sit up, following Michael into the kitchen of my apartment. He’s quick to start raiding my fridge for ingredients as he rambles about his favorite breakfast dishes. I smile as I watch my boyfriend eagerly rip my kitchen apart in search for a spatula.

“Come on, Jer! I know you have one. Damn, you never do dishes in this place,” Michael says as he slams another one of my drawers shut.

I roll my eyes and point to the drawer next to the sink. Michael follows my fingers' path and pulls the drawer fast out of the counter. He shuffles for a bit before he finally finds his much needed spatula.

“Huzza! Jeremiah does do his dishes,” Michael pushes the drawer back in, “Sometimes.”

“It’s not everyday that I make pancakes. I don’t have the money to restock expensive six dollar a box nonfat pancakes mixes every time I visit the grocer.”

Michael smirks as he lazily pours a heaping of pancake mix into a white mixing bowl. I walk over to help in his endeavor. I try my best to slowly pour the right amount of milk into the bowl as Michael begins to mix. We stay quiet during the baking. It’s comforting to be besides Michael and do something so mundane. But it also worries me. I start to think about what would happen if we were to move in together. We’ve been considering it since the end of high school, well after we came out. But we never let the idea linger for too long before one of us makes a joke or proposes a new topic to talk about. It’s not that living in the same home as Michael would worry me, it’s the question it proposes: What next? Once a couple moves in together, that’s usually the end. Right before marriage. And marriage is the last thing on my mind.

I get so caught up in my thoughts that I pour my pancake half out of the pan. The sweet, gooey batter makes it’s way to the stovetop. I look at Michael, who’s too caught up in his own pancake baking to notice my mistake. He quickly swipes his last pancake with the spatula and places it on the plate. I soon bring my own haphazardly created pancake to the plate. We take the large plate and head to the table to eat.

“So,” Michael says as he gets us our own plates, “How’s working at Jambee's?”

I roll my eyes as the mention of my new job. Jambee’s is a record store that sells secondhand, cheap, ancient records that no one listens to. I haven’t been there more than a dozen times and I already hate it. It’s miraculously boring, with maybe six or seven costumers an hour on busy days. All I do is stand at the counter as unidentifiable folk songs from the 60s play on the store’s radio. I take the plate Michael offers me and sit at the table adjacent from him. If only Michael had to worry about the workforce.

“It’s just as bad as I expected it to be. Maybe a bit worse,” I say.

Michael nods slowly as he takes his first bite. I pour a little syrup on mine and begin to eat. Michael looks away and back at me again. I don’t even have to look at the sympathetic look on his face to know what’s coming next.

“Jeremy, you know if you ever need anything like money that you can come to me, right?”

This is the number one cause of all of our fights. Every tear I shed over Michael is because he can’t let the one thing he has over me go.

“I don’t want your money, Michael.”

“Babe. I’m not pushing anything on you. I just want you to know that I can help,” Michael assures.

I grip the fork in my hand so tight I feel my skin crack. I let out an unimpressed humph at his reassurance.

“Just because your grandparents ran into a pole on the Jersey State bridge and won a five million dollar lawsuit doesn’t mean you’re above me.”

“Jeremy, you know damn well that’s not what it means. And they didn’t win the lawsuit, they settled out of it,” Michael corrects.

I let out a surpirse burst of laughter.

“Are you serious? All you do is hold your stupid fucking money over my head! Every time I need something it’s ‘I can give this, I can give that.’ I don’t want your money. I’m fine on my own.”

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy. It’s not _my money_. It’s my grandparents. I want to help you because I love you and I see you struggle with college and rent and bills. My grandparents want to help, too. You’re like family to us, Jer.”

I tear the fork from my grasp and throw it back at the plate. It lands in a sweet, syrup stained pancake.

“I’m not a little kid, Michael! I can take care of myself. I’m an adult now, rent and college and bills and shit is my business. You shoving your money in my face doesn’t help me,” I retort.

“God damn, it’s not always about _you_ , Jeremy!” Michael shouts.

And that’s what always does it. Someone throws the infamous blaming and the other is quick to their feet to defend. I’m so irate that I stand up, pushing my chair far behind me.

“You just can’t _stand_ to see me surviving without you.”

“Oh, sure. Because it’s always about how Jeremy does things. How Jeremy lives his life. How Jeremy pushes people away who are _trying to help_!”

“You’re fucking _suffocating_ , Michael! All you do is obsess over me to the point of annoyance. You don’t think I can handle the world on my own. Well, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Michael stands up from the table next. He stares at me for a long moment before huffing and walking away. He goes to the front of my apartment and grabs his shoes. I let him tie them and stand back up. I let him rip the door open and slam it back closed. I let him drive home while I stand like an idiot in my apartment, staring at my door. I let him walk in and out of my heart again and again because all I do is push him away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes I'm back from the grave. You guys would have a lot more content from me if my computer didn't break. I'm updating and writing from my phone at the moment. I really hoped you like this new fic. It's something that's been brewing in my mind for a while now. Please comment below if this is something you would to see continued. Until then, Sky.


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